


the aptitude to fly

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Body Image, Bottom Richie Tozier, Comedian Richie Tozier, Coming Out, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Getting Together, Gyms, M/M, Personal Trainer Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Top Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: Richie finds himself wondering what kind of personal trainer he’ll end up with. God, he can’t believe he’s doing this.Bev gets back to him with a contact for a guy Ben highly recommends, named Eddie Kaspbrak. With a name like that, Richie immediately pictures an old Polish guy, white hair and red face, sturdy and decidedly not someone Richie would be into, and is relieved. He realizes he’s kind of picturing Burgess Meredith in "Rocky," sweatsuit and beanie and all.Okay, maybe he can do this.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 29
Kudos: 314





	the aptitude to fly

**Author's Note:**

> Several months ago I wondered if there was an existing AU with Eddie as a personal trainer. There was not. So I started writing one. Enjoy my thinly veiled ode to Bill Hader's body, which I love.
> 
> Please note: As Richie's going to the gym in this fic after being alerted to health issues, there's a lot of talk about body size/image, health, food, and working out. There are mentions of alcohol and drug use, and one passing mention of disordered eating.

“Who’d have thought show business involved so much fucking _paperwork_ ,” Richie mutters to himself as he rips open the envelope that contains his life insurance physical exam results. 

That’s the kind of mail he gets now, at his age.

He scans the letter and can immediately tell that the results are less than encouraging. He’ll still be covered by the studio’s insurance—he’s no Lindsay Lohan—but it doesn’t seem like a great thing to have his cholesterol and blood pressure results listed in red. Apparently 40 years of doing the bare minimum in terms of physical activity and a fair amount of alcohol consumption and occasional recreational drug use is catching up with him. Remembering the fact that his family tree is rife with heart attack and stroke victims doesn’t really help him feel a lot better.

Later, standing in his boxers in front of his excessively large bathroom mirror, Richie stares at his belly. Yeah, he definitely has a belly. Maybe even a belly that deserves a qualifier: _big_ , or _pot_ , or _beer_. Maybe it’s even a _gut_. He’s joked before that he looks like a frog—round belly, long arms and legs—and that’s definitely true, but he’s never thought much about what that might mean for his health. Now, though, he realizes there’s undeniable jiggle action. He’s got love handles. He might even… have a _dad bod_.

And frankly it’s becoming hard to ignore that walking for a long while, especially in the heat, exhausts him. Running? Forget it. He breaks into a sweat after eating a cheeseburger, for God’s sake. He stopped smoking ten years ago, so he’s got that going for him, but he still maybe drinks more than he should, and his hangovers come on more easily and are less easily shrugged off. It’s just not really worth it anymore, which is not something he’d ever think he’d believe. He doesn’t even want to think about what state his liver might be in.

None of the random guys he’s hooked up with since he moved from Maine to New York City have complained about his body, but then, they’d have no reason to—Richie Tozier doesn’t have what anyone would call “relationships,” and these dudes have no investment in him. As far as they’re concerned, he’s just another small-time celebrity who likes to suck cock and wants to keep that little fact on the DL. Hell, most of the time Richie himself is pretty great at ignoring that. His public persona and his act certainly don’t give anything away, what with all the jokes about what a cad he is with women. 

It’s a living.

Richie sighs, putting a hand on either side of his stomach and giving himself a pat or two. “Ho ho ho,” he mutters. “Merry myocardial infarction.”

At lunch, he decides to get a salad, and immediately hates himself for it. The salad is not filling at all and it just makes him mad that he basically wasted fifteen dollars on it. Fifteen dollars, for fuck’s sake. Fucking New York. He orders a loaded baked potato for dessert, and what the hell, a milkshake for second dessert.

Laying on the couch watching TV, he remembers that his beautiful redheaded stylist and very good friend Bev happens to have a fiance who used to be, according to him, a fat kid. Now, the guy looks like an underwear model. Ben also happens to be very sweet, so he’s basically a dreamboat. If anyone knows someone Richie can see to get himself into shape, it’ll be this guy.

He texts Bev. _Hey, do you know any personal trainers? Or does Ben?_

She replies, _What? You looking for a date?_

 _No. I’m looking for a personal trainer because I can’t walk up two flights of stairs without seeing black spots_.

 _Sure_ , she answers. _I know a few, so does Ben. I’ll get you some contact info_.

 _Thanks, Red. Say hi to Ben for me_.

 _No problem, Richie. Take care <3_. 

Richie finds himself wondering what kind of personal trainer he’ll end up with. A mean screamer like Jillian Michaels? A happy, insufferably friendly guy? A peppy cheerleader type? A drill instructor? God, he can’t believe he’s doing this. 

His porn search that night wanders into gym rat territory, including something where a personal trainer accepts payment in sex when a client can’t pay. Richie can’t resist watching, but also hopes he won’t end up picturing the main guy getting bent over this bench while he’s at the gym with whoever his professional torturer will be. Maybe it’ll be a woman. Then again, he’s not sure a woman would take him on as a client after two seconds of researching him, and frankly he wouldn’t blame her.

Bev gets back to him with a contact for a guy Ben highly recommends, named Eddie Kaspbrak. With a name like that, Richie immediately pictures an old Polish guy, white hair and red face, sturdy and decidedly not someone Richie would be into, and is relieved. He realizes he’s kind of picturing Burgess Meredith in _Rocky_ , sweatsuit and beanie and all. Okay, maybe he can do this.

So Richie texts him the next morning, hoping the old guy knows how to use a smartphone. _Hey_ , he says. _My name is Richie Tozier and I was given your information by my stylist Bev, I’m one of her clients and I’m looking for a personal trainer_.

Eddie Kaspbrak answers a few minutes later. _Hi. I happened to just have someone cancel so we can meet for a consult this afternoon if you’re free_. He adds the address of a gym on 31st.

That seems really soon. Richie takes a deep breath. _Okay, sure_.

_What are you looking to do?_

_Well, according to my physical, my cholesterol and BP are pretty damn high, and I break into a sweat eating a cheeseburger. Bellywise I’m starting to look like a jolly old elf. So just some sort of basic health program, I guess_.

_How old are you?_

_Just turned 40_.

_Bring your results with you for us to discuss. 3:00 good?_

_Yeah_.

 _See you then_.

Okay, so, he’s going to go see a personal trainer. Richie showers, has some coffee and cereal, and ponders what to wear, deciding on a shirt and jeans, which is what he wears for just about everything anyway. Maybe he’s supposed to wear something fitness-oriented, but… the problem with that is he doesn’t have anything like running shorts or athletic pants or anything. His sneakers are all Converse and Adidas, but definitely the streetwear styles. He’s going to have to go shopping after this, and the prospect doesn’t fill him with joy.

The afternoon rolls around and Richie heads to the gym address he was given. The place is bustling with fit people in appropriate clothing. Richie feels like a slovenly sore thumb, acutely aware of how out of shape he looks, and uncomfortable with the new awareness—he wouldn’t normally have given two shits about it.

At the front desk, he asks for Eddie Kaspbrak, stumbling a little over his unusual last name. The girl at the desk tells him he’ll be down shortly. There’s a stairwell in the lobby, and the entire place echoes with yelling, music, the noises of equipment. Richie has a seat, and plays with his phone most of the time, tapping his foot and occasionally looking out the big glass front windows, watching the people who come up to the front desk, watching the people who leave. He’s nervous and not sure why. 

He looks up at one point to see a guy coming down the stairs in little compression shorts and a sleeveless top who is… just plain hot. Actually, it’s almost as though he’d been designed in a lab specifically to appeal to Richie. He’s on the shorter side, faintly tanned skin, very dark hair, dark brows, very fit compact body, big expressive dark eyes, and serious dimples. He’s talking to someone, a blonde woman, patting her on the back and smiling as she’s apparently about to leave, gesturing animatedly. Okay, if the clientele here includes this guy, even if he’s straight and he’s flirting with this chick, Richie can definitely get used to coming here often. After all, there are plenty of stories stretching back into the ages about hookups in men’s locker rooms, and it’s not like all those guys were out, or completely gay. Not that he thinks he has a chance with this guy, but you know, still.

It takes him a second to realize that, as the blonde leaves, the guy is walking up to him, still kinda smiling, a brow raised and squinting a little, holding out his hand as he stands in front of Richie. “Mr. Tozier?” the guy says. “I’m Eddie Kaspbrak.”

 _Oh shit_.

\-------

Eddie finds the name “Richie Tozier” to be somewhat familiar. He’s some kind of comedian. Kind of cute, Eddie decides once he looks him up. Yeah, definitely cute.

Then he actually watches his act.

Mr. Tozier, it seems, has some issues with women. And his nickname is “Trashmouth.”

But whatever. What his clients do day-to-day isn’t his business. 

Richie is definitely good looking, as far as Eddie’s taste is concerned. That said, Eddie has a lot of clients who are good looking, who have to be so for their careers. That’s kind of the point of being in shape for a lot of them. Eddie manages to be professional with them all, because that’s his job. 

Eddie watches Richie walk around the stage in another YouTube clip, and tells himself this’ll be the last one and then he’ll leave for the gym. He studies Richie’s body, which is no admittedly no chore. He’s tall; broad but underdeveloped shoulders; a little bit of pudge at his waistline even visible under his blazer; long legs. Yeah, Eddie can definitely work with this. Even if Richie’s never exercised a day in his life, all it takes is discipline. ...Which is not a given. A lot of these comedian types don’t have great habits, are too into smoking and drinking to give it up easily. That said, at least Richie took the step of contacting him. It’s something, anyway. He packs up his protein drink and heads to the gym.

He’s walking a client he’s had for a while, Brittany, downstairs to the lobby that afternoon when he sees Richie waiting for him. Eddie’s a little surprised to see that he looks kinda bored, glum, even maybe a little nervous. He’s more surprised, in a way, to realize that Richie’s checking him out. More or less discreetly, maybe not even realizing he’s doing it, but still. That’s interesting, given his stand-up act, but not necessarily all that surprising.

Richie shakes his hand, looking a little stunned, for some reason. He’s got a firm grip, nice big hands. The rest is what Eddie already knows from his clips: square jaw, five o’clock shadow, sideburns, longish hair that curls. Glasses. But in person, he’s even better looking. And definitely tall, and broad.

After the introductions, Richie puts his hands in his pockets like a leftover trait of a sulky teenagerhood, like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and the posture makes his broad shoulders slump. He looks uncertain, so Eddie smiles. “Come on, we’ll go to my office.” It’s weirdly endearing, seeing a loud comedian with a blue act who’s known as “Trashmouth” looking like a nervous overgrown kid.

In his office, Richie folds himself into a chair on the other side of Eddie’s desk—yeah, he’s definitely a rangy guy, and it’s attractive. Eddie reminds himself that even if Richie was checking him out, for all intents and purposes, he’s straight, and the last thing he needs is something starting up with some closeted client, or a straight one. Not again.

Richie did bring his physical results, and his cholesterol and BP aren’t great. Eddie hands him a health history form, which he fills out, and he asks him some basic questions. Richie says he hasn’t exercised since gym class in school, that he doesn’t drink as much anymore, and that he quit smoking ten years ago. He smokes pot from time to time. He doesn’t watch what he eats, unless, he says, you count watching it land on his waist. His weight isn’t that high for his height, but he’s not happy with his gut, and he says he has basically no endurance. His family has a history of heart attacks. He doesn’t have any prior injuries or recurring pain, other than some lower back and knee discomfort from time to time. His schedule fits with the available appointments Eddie has.

Eddie notices that he seems pretty quiet, apart from answering Eddie’s questions and voicing a few basic ones of his own, and he’s still surprised by that. He’s blushing, too. Strange for someone known as “Trashmouth.” He’s probably embarrassed to be in a gym. A lot of people seem to feel that way, unfortunately, and Eddie thinks that’s too bad. Everybody deserves the chance to get fit, he thinks. Anyway, somehow the blushing just adds to his appeal.

 _He’s straight_ , Eddie reminds himself. _For all intents and purposes_.

“Now, I’d usually take you as a prospective client into the wellness room and have you try out a few machines to see how you do with them,” Eddie says, stifling a laugh as a panicked look crosses Richie’s face, “so… are you okay with doing that, today?”

“Uh, I’ve got like, jeans and Converse on, I don’t feel very… gym-ready,” Richie answers, sounding a little abashed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He clears his throat.

“Okay. That’s fine, you don’t have to.” It’s probably more than not quite being dressed to work out that’s making Richie decline, but it’s totally understandable for someone not used to the gym to not be raring to go. “If you’re interested in moving forward I can go ahead and book you for the time we discussed, and here’s a list of what you’ll need to bring,” Eddie adds, handing him a printout.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m interested. I’m definitely interested,” Richie says, taking the piece of paper. “So uh, go ahead and book me, Danno.” He chuckles nervously.

Some trainers have assistants, but Eddie likes to handle his calendar himself. He puts in an appointment for Richie, and after a moment of consideration, makes it a recurring one. He scents a challenge in the air, and he thinks he can successfully convince Richie to keep coming back. Call it his professional pride. 

Richie stands. “So,” he says, “I’ll see you next week.” He sounds a little uncertain, and holds out his hand again. 

“Definitely,” Eddie says firmly, shaking it, meeting and holding Richie’s gaze. Richie seems like the type to need a little discipline, to be held accountable, to not be allowed to get away with his bullshit all the time. “Nice to meet you, Richie.”

“Yeah, you too.” Richie says. “Right. Okay,” he adds, almost under his breath.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” Eddie says, gesturing to the door, letting Richie go first. God, he really is broad. His shoulders are already pretty mouthwatering, jacket almost stretching to contain them. Eddie tries to imagine him without his jacket and his shirt, how he’d look with just a basic upper-body program after maybe just a few weeks. 

_Damn it_.

He sees Richie to the door, makes sure he has everything he needs, and texts Bev.

_Richie Tozier, huh?_

She replies almost right away. _Uh oh. He your type? ;)_

 _My “type” is not straight men who make a living from crass sexism_.

 _Examine your assumptions, that’s all I’m going to say_ , Bev replies. Eddie mutters a curse under his breath, but he’s grinning, although he’s not sure why.

\-------

Richie had been completely thrown off his game by the fact that his personal trainer turned out to be a smoking hottie rather than Burgess Meredith, as well as the newness of the situation. He hopes he can get back on track by his first appointment. He’s pretty sure, at least, that Eddie didn’t realize that the entire time he was in his office, Richie was thinking about jumping his bones. He was actually tongue-tied over it, which was wildly unsettling.

Anyway, now he has to go shopping for gym clothes.

He texts Bev. _First of all, fuck you, you didn’t tell me he was hot_.

 _LOL_ , she replies. _Sorry, must have slipped my mind_.

 _Ginger witch. Can you go shopping with me before my first appointment, I have literally no gym clothes._.

 _God, fine_.

Bev picks out a lot of stuff that’s… tighter-fitting and more revealing than he would have liked. “Shit,” he complains, looking over the little shorts and shirts she’s piled onto his arms, “I was hoping for like… a track suit or something.”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. 

“I’m too fat for these. Look at this shit,” he complains, showing her how his stomach stretches out one of the tops she’d picked, all around like a spare tire. 

“That’s why you’re going to the gym,” she points out, unmoved. “No, but honey, you look fine, you really do.”

“You’re just trying to humiliate me in front of my extremely fuckable personal trainer,” he accuses.

“Richie! Come on. You don’t need my help with that.”

There actually aren’t a lot of non-tight options when it comes to gym clothes, so Richie sighs, resigned, and buys what she’s picked out, as well as new gym shoes, and a gym bag.

Now a member of the gym, he dresses out in the locker room; it’s a lot less sexy in here than porn would have him believe. He tries not to have flashbacks to high school, where he was a gawky dork having growth spurts every other week, although he wishes he had that metabolism now even if it did mean he was almost literally shoveling down pounds of food at times. Nobody’s snapping his ass with a towel and calling him a queer here, though. Not yet, anyway.

He looks at himself in the mirror. The lighting in here is shitty, of course, and he guesses his legs look okay if untoned, but his shoulders look weak even though they’re pretty wide, and his spare tire is ridiculous. He jiggles it, scowling, then realizes he’s going to be late, and walks out to find the place Eddie told him to meet him upstairs.

Everybody else in the gym is fit and looks like they know what they’re doing. Richie feels like an overgrown slob. Even the old guys look like they have more on the ball than he does. He’s wondering why he’s even here when Eddie walks up, and his mood must show on his face. “Everything okay?” Eddie says. His clothes are just as tight as they were the other day, and he’s still super hot. He can even get away with wearing… a fannypack. Maybe he _is_ gay. Not that it would matter.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Richie says automatically. “Just not… used to this.”

“Understandable,” Eddie says. “So, we can get you on a treadmill, or an elliptical, or on some machines. I’d like to get an idea of your heart rate and how much you’re comfortable lifting. I’d like to do a mixed program since I have a feeling variety will be what keeps you interested, and both cardio and weights are going to be important. We’ll also discuss your diet, but that’ll be later.”

Richie sighs. “Uh, I’m trying to decide what of that is the least humiliating. But I guess it doesn’t matter.” He shrugs. 

“None of it is intended to be humiliating,” Eddie says a little briskly. “Okay, let’s start with getting your resting heart rate. Hold out your arm.”

Eddie puts his fingers on Richie’s wrist, and counts his heartbeats. “Don’t they have, like, wearables that do that shit now?” Richie asks, feeling like he can stare at Eddie’s thick dark lashes while he’s looking down at his wrist. 

“Maybe you should have bought one,” Eddie says. He takes out a pencil and a little notepad—out of his fannypack—and writes down some numbers. 

Eddie gets him on the treadmill and sets a timer. A few minutes in, Richie wants to die. He really shouldn’t have let Eddie make him do this one first. He’s going to be a mess for the rest of the appointment. If he survives that long. 

Turns out his heart takes longer to recover from that than it should. Things are more serious than he thought.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie says. “That’s why you’re here. We’ll take care of it.”

Next Eddie puts him on a couple of machines, seeing how much he can lift and where to set the various components. This requires Eddie to crouch and kneel and bend a lot and generally be really all up in Richie’s personal space. Richie’s covered in flop sweat, probably red in the face, and is pretty sure he’s still not breathing normally. He guesses the ship for getting Eddie to find him attractive has already sailed. But at least Richie gets to look at him.

Eddie is highly professional and knowledgeable, and unfortunately those are big turn-ons for Richie. He also isn’t interested in putting up with Richie’s whining and nonsense, which is another turn-on. For all the good it’s doing him. Typical.

By the end of his appointment, Richie is exhausted and basically at the end of his rope. Eddie gives him a post-workout snack, since he’d forgotten to bring one despite the list he’d been given, and takes him to his office before he can go dress out.

“You did well today,” Eddie says, and Richie scoffs. Eddie raises a brow until Richie sits back and shuts up, and continues. “You’re new to this, Richie. We’ve got to set baselines and find out what works for you. Everybody does it. You have to start somewhere.” Richie’d been a kid who didn’t really study in school, because he usually didn’t have to; he either was interested enough to get something right away, or he wasn’t and didn’t bother.

“Discipline is not really my strong suit,” he says wryly. “Ask… any of my teachers. And my parents. And my manager. And my friends.”

“You might surprise yourself,” Eddie says. “Now, here are some good pamphlets on nutrition. It’s going to be an extremely important component of this entire project. Luckily there’s plenty of stuff on the market now that makes it easy. Just cut out the junk food and the empty calories. I promise all of this together will have you feeling a lot better really soon.” He hands over a shit-ton of pamphlets. “Okay, and for tonight you might be feeling sore so I’m going to advise that you take an Epsom salt bath, just soak in that for a while. You could start doing that regularly.”

“I’ll probably need to,” Richie grumbles.

Eddie just laughs a little. “You’ll be fine. The more you do it the easier it gets.”

“That’s what she said.”

Eddie laughs for real at that. He laughs with his entire face, his eyes scrunching up, and he somehow gains even more dimples. He’s really, really cute, and Richie is fucked. 

That night in the Epsom salt bath (he has to go out and buy Epsom salt first, of course), Richie can’t hold back a groan or two at how the warm water actually does make his sore muscles feel better. He also can’t help thinking about Eddie, and getting a hand around his cock. Right there in the bath, he jerks off thinking about him: his sleek compact body, his big eyes, his voice, and after he comes he feels guilty. He’s paying Eddie to make him get his shit together, for fuck’s sake, and now he’s probably going to get a boner every time he looks at him. Well, maybe that was going to happen anyway. He’s not making things any easier for himself, but what the fuck else is new. 

\-------

Eddie can’t deny he finds Richie pretty appealing. He’s charmingly self-deprecating, but he doesn’t really have a reason to be so down on himself; he’s doing pretty well for a beginner. He’s already attractive. Too bad he’s apparently straight, and professionally a dick. Although, Eddie can’t forget the way Richie was checking him out that first day. Maybe there’s something to that… but Eddie’s come too far to get mired in another sticky situation. He’s got to steer clear of thinking of Richie in anything approaching that way. He’s got professional standards, after all.

It’s just kind of difficult not to, is the thing.

Eddie’s been out for just a few years, and he only divorced his wife five years ago, around the same time he decided he wanted to no longer work in insurance and that he wanted to be a personal trainer instead. It’s been… a lot to adjust to, on top of the fact that his mother spent his entire childhood convincing him that he was sick, weak, allergic, and susceptible to all kinds of shit. Just being who he is today is a radical, revolutionary act: out, divorced, fit, healthy. 

Helping other people find this sort of peace of mind for themselves is, apparently, his life’s calling, and he’d love to do that for Richie, too. Because Richie’s definitely unhappy over something. At the very least, the brain chemicals naturally released by regular exercise could make him feel better. 

“So how long will it take until I start, like, noticing results?” Richie asks at their next appointment, as Eddie finalizes the schedule that will make up Richie’s program: cardio days, weights days, rest days.

“If you do everything here and eat and sleep right? Two weeks,” Eddie says, and Richie looks surprised. “Plus, two weeks is about how long they say it takes to form a habit, so if you can just get yourself to stick with this program for two weeks, you’ll probably find you’ll keep going because you’ll feel so much better. Why, did you think it would be longer?”

“Yeah, I did. Two weeks, are you shitting me?”

“I am not shitting you. You’re only 40, even with some of your health concerns you’re in not-so-bad shape already,” Eddie clears his throat, feeling his ears turn slightly red, “and you should even with some soreness in the beginning start to notice a difference definitely in under a month.”

“I’ll be damned,” Richie says. 

“Ready?” Eddie says, gesturing to his office door. “Let’s go.”

Richie is… definitely an interesting case, Eddie confirms over the next week. On the surface, he’s rebellious and recalcitrant, even whiny, complaining about how Eddie puts him on the treadmill too long, how the leg press is probably destroying his already decrepit knees, how he can’t possibly do as many pullups as Eddie wants him to, how Eddie is an unreasonable maniac. But he still does everything Eddie asks, and he does a pretty good job. 

He’s also a moaner and groaner, which Eddie tries to either ignore or get him to stop doing when it’s excessive—too much grunting is rude, Planet Fitness is right about that. But he also doesn’t want to be thinking too sexually about those moans and groans. Because he’s definitely still attracted to Richie, and nothing can happen here. 

For some reason, Richie assumes for an entire week that he’s doing poorly and should probably just quit. Eddie tries to tell him otherwise, until finally, at the end of the week, he takes him into his office.

“Richie, remember what I said about it taking two weeks to start seeing results?”

“Yup, I do.”

“You’re halfway there.”

“‘Whoa-oh, living on a prayer’?”

Eddie laughs despite himself. “Richie. I keep trying to tell you, you’re doing fine. You’re constantly down on yourself, but you’re doing everything I ask and you’re well on your way. If you have a real problem with the program, I want you to tell me so we can change something, but I really want to get you to understand that you’re doing fine. More than fine.”

Richie’s arms are crossed, and he looks uncomfortable. His face is flushed, and Eddie can tell it doesn’t have anything to do with the workout he just finished. Then it clicks—Richie has trouble taking compliments. He demands perfection from himself, and he can’t accept compliments well, but he really wants them. He wants to do well, but he thinks he isn’t.

“Just think about that, okay? Try to frame things positively. This doesn’t have to be difficult.” Eddie stands up. “Okay, have a good weekend, relax, and I’ll see you Monday.”

Richie nods, looking thoughtful, brow furrowed.

Monday rolls around and Richie seems to be in a very different mood. He’s not bitching about every single thing he’s asked to do now—he’s just doing it, and then asking for more. He inhales a little and looks kind of flustered, Eddie notices, every time Eddie casually tells him he’s doing a good job. Eddie doesn’t think Richie realizes he’s doing it. It’s somehow really sexy, Richie letting himself accept praise. Eddie kind of misses the bitching, though, so he adds box jumps and that definitely brings it back.

At the end of two weeks, Eddie asks Richie to meet him in his office, and he walks in to find Richie looking at his bulletin board, and the Pride flag pinned on it. He’s got an unreadable expression on his face, which is flushed, and he quickly looks away when Eddie comes in. Eddie doesn’t say anything about that, just takes out the printouts he’d put together for Richie showing his progress.

“You’ve done really well,” Eddie tells him. “Like I said, it was achievable, and you accomplished your goals.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying ‘I told you so,’” Richie remarks, but he’s smiling as he peruses the numbers. “Is it obvious, yet?” he wonders aloud, and looks up at Eddie. “Like… can you tell I’ve been working out?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and swallows. “Uh, yeah. I can. I mean, it’ll get more obvious as you go, but I can tell. You’re holding yourself differently and moving differently, and uh,” he clears his throat, “your shoulders.”

“My shoulders.” Richie squints. “Is that a good thing?” Eddie nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically, but Richie doesn’t seem to notice anything odd. “Yeah, okay,” he finally says, as if to himself. Standing, he holds out his hand, and Eddie takes it. “Man, thanks, Eddie. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“It’s all you, dude, I’m just pointing you in the right direction.”

\-------

For years, Richie tried to date women and enjoy it, and eventually gave up, and instead enjoyed discreet hookups with men who kept their mouths shut after they or he went home. He’s never said the words “I’m gay” out loud to himself, or to anyone else. But now he finds himself imagining saying those words to Eddie. Now that he’s seen that Eddie has a rainbow flag in his office. 

Maybe it’s some sort of Stockholm syndrome, but he feels like he can trust Eddie.

But maybe he won’t tell him just yet.

It’s been a month since he first met with Eddie. When he looks at himself in the mirror now, he can tell a difference. It’s not huge, but it’s there. He wishes he’d taken a Before pic, so he could really tell for sure. It’s not that he didn’t believe Eddie, though, it’s just because he can see it now, too. He’s put on muscle weight, and his gut has shrunk down some. He’s standing up straighter. He’s sleeping better. He doesn’t feel as shitty, overall. He no longer craves junk food. Well, not as much. He’s kind of not sure who he is anymore.

After their next appointment, Richie asks, “Hey, can I tell you something?”

“Sure. Let’s go to my office.”

As soon as Eddie is sitting across from him, looking expectant, Richie wants to chicken out. “Uh, actually… it’s nothing. It’s dumb. Nevermind,” he says, and stands up.

“Richie, it’s okay. You can tell me whatever’s on your mind—is there something you want to change about the program? We can add in swimming, boxing—”

“It’s not about the program, no, although that sounds good— No, it’s just….” Richie sighs. “It’s something I’ve never told anyone before, it’s…. It’s weird. You know what…. This is weird, I shouldn’t burden you with this stuff.”

Eddie stands now, too. “I’ll do whatever I can to help, Richie.”

Jesus, now he probably assumes Richie was witness to a murder or a molestation or something. “It’s just—”

“Please, sit.”

Richie sits. Eddie sits. Richie rubs his temples. “It’s just that….” Richie sighs. He’s making such a thing about this Eddie’s probably going to start getting annoyed with him. “It’s just that I’m gay.” He closes his eyes.

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a while, and bracing himself, Richie opens his eyes to see Eddie watching him, elbows on the table, hands clasped under his chin. “I’m glad you’re comfortable telling me that, Rich,” he finally says, and Richie realizes Eddie’s never called him ‘Rich’ before. He wonders what that means. It _feels_ unbearably intimate, and Richie looks away again.

“I’ve never said that before. To anyone,” Richie says, and swallows. 

Eddie nods, just briefly. Richie gradually relaxes; Eddie not trying to fill the space with words somehow feels like the right response. Finally, Eddie says, “It was hard for me to say that, too.”

“I mean, I’m sorry, I don’t— You’re my personal trainer, man, I should have like, told my parents first or something—” God, Eddie probably thinks he’s some sort of fucking weirdo.

“It’s fine. You felt comfortable telling me, it’s fine. The client-trainer relationship can be… emotional. We’re like therapists, in a way.”

Richie’s thankful for the gentleness, but it’s also making him feel a little wild. “It’s just… I’m forty years old, right, and with the number of dicks I’ve sucked—” Eddie raises his expressive eyebrows, and his cheeks flush almost imperceptibly, making Richie think maybe he’s gone too far— “you’d think I’d be able to at least say that shit to myself in the mirror, you know?”

Eddie nods again. “It happens for everybody in their own time.”

Time. Richie suddenly looks at the clock on the wall over Eddie’s shoulder. “Shit, you’ve probably got another appointment. I’ll get out of your hair,” Richie says, standing. 

“It’s no problem, Richie—”

But Richie’s already at the door. “Thanks, man.”

As he dresses out, Richie wonders if Eddie thinks Richie’s another sleazy client hitting on him. Probably happens to him all the time. He probably has a boyfriend, too.

Still, it had been nice to be able to tell somebody.

\-------

So… Richie’s gay.

Eddie wants him, he can’t deny that anymore. But he doesn’t know if Richie wants him back. The way he came out definitely didn’t seem like a come-on. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, and he’s still a client. Maybe not for much longer, but for now. Anyway, it’s probably too soon for Eddie to pounce on him. He’s vulnerable.

After Richie’s come out to him, Eddie’s struck by how Richie doesn’t say anything more about it. It’s like the conversation never happened. He acts exactly like he had before, and Eddie takes his cue from that, whatever it may mean.

They decide it’ll be a good idea to add some boxing to Richie’s program. They definitely have fun with that, with Eddie showing Richie all the different stances and punches, and Eddie finally sees Richie relax, apparently in his element making non-stop _Rocky_ jokes. He does a great Stallone and an even better Burgess Meredith; a few shouts of “Women weaken legs!” and “You're gonna eat lightnin' and you're gonna crap thunder! We’ll have to put ya in a cage, kid!” and Eddie’s on the floor. 

He also definitely catches Richie checking him out a few times. Each time, once he’s caught, he looks away almost immediately, blinking and flustered, and covers it with another joke or some sort of pratfall. 

God, he’s ridiculous. 

And Eddie is utterly charmed. It feels weirdly like being back in school or something, although he definitely never had a friend like Richie in school. 

Every time he catches Richie checking him out, though, he’s sure to check him out right back, to get closer to him, to not look away. Just so Richie maybe gets the message that it’s okay. Eddie doesn’t say anything about it, though. And neither does Richie.

That night, at home, he has to admit to himself that he’s been thinking about Richie a lot lately.

He’s almost not surprised when on Saturday morning he sees him sitting at a table outside a cafe not far from where Eddie lives, and talking to someone who’s none other than Eddie’s accountant, Stan. Apparently they have more acquaintances in common than just Bev. 

Richie hasn’t seen him yet, and Eddie takes a moment while in line to look at him. He’s clearly good friends with Stan, who’s got a look of mild amusement, fondness, and exasperation on his face as he talks with Richie—a highly understandable response, Eddie knows by now. Stan is seemingly shaking his head at something Richie said and Richie is going into a full-body laugh, his face scrunching up, his overbite making itself obvious. Eddie can practically hear his goofy laugh from in here. He’s never seen Richie that relaxed and laughing that hard, and he wants to see it again. He wants to be the cause of him feeling like that.

When Eddie walks out with his coffee and goes up to their table, Richie looks comically shocked to see him. “Eddie,” he blurts out, going pink. “Uh, hi.”

“Hey, Richie, hey, Stan,” Eddie says. 

“Hi, Eddie,” Stan replies, looking amused. 

“You know Stan?” Richie manages to say, obviously trying to gather himself together.

“Yeah, he’s my accountant.” If Eddie didn’t know better, he’d think Richie was checking him out because he’s seeing him in a t-shirt and jeans rather than what we wears for work, and amusingly enough this outfit is a lot less revealing.

“That’s quite the fucking coincidence,” Richie says, and then holds up his coffee cup. “Oh, hey, I promise this is nothing fancy, just regular coffee with one creamer, one sugar. No syrups or whipped cream.”

“I’m sure,” Eddie says. “But it’s fine, Richie. It’s the weekend. You can have treats.”

“Eh, the syrup and the whipped cream tastes too sweet now.” Richie makes a face. “You’ve ruined that shit for me.”

“Good,” Eddie says, grinning. “It’s empty calories and unnecessary sugar.” He and Richie grin at each other a little too long, apparently, because Stan clears his throat. “Okay, I gotta get going,” Eddie says, raising his own cup. “Stan, I’ll have some receipts to bring by next week, I’ll be in touch. Rich, see you Monday.”

“I’ll be ready for more torture,” Richie says, still grinning, and Eddie scoffs, amused.

He goes to Stan’s office Monday morning because he knows it’ll bother him if he doesn’t give him these receipts as soon as possible. He’s not sure whether to mention Richie, but Stan saves him the trouble.

“So,” Stan says, “ _you’re_ Richie’s trainer.”

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie says. “Why, did he say something?”

Stan just looks at him. 

“What?”

“Eddie. Please put us all out of our misery and ask that man out. If I’d known he was talking about you all this time I’d have told you a lot sooner. Honestly, I’m disappointed in myself for not figuring it out before Saturday.”

“Holy shit, what did he say? I can’t ask him out, he’s a client. I mean for now anyway. Do I have to fire him? What did he say, Stan?”

“Nothing bad.” Stan flips through the receipts he’s handed. “You should just scan these, you know.”

“I didn’t think it was anything bad! What, Stan? Yeah, I know, I just need to get a scanner.”

Stan sits back, looking thoughtful. “It’s interesting, with Richie,” he starts, and Eddie gets the feeling he should settle in. “It’s not that he’s saying a lot. He’s not, like, going on about you like he would about some piece of ass in his act.” The face Stan makes when he says that makes it clear what his opinion is of Richie’s act. “He calls you his ‘hot trainer,’ so there is that, but… he’s really enthusiastic about _you_ , like, I guess as a person. He doesn’t say it in so many words, but you’ve basically changed his life and he cares about what you think. You have to read between the lines to see it, because he wants to act like, and maybe he even thinks he is, some loudmouth who tells it like it is all the time, but when it comes to important things, he plays close to the vest.”

Well, shit. Changed his life? “Okay. So? Why does that mean I need to ask him out?” Stan’s very perceptive, so Eddie knows he’s on to something—he just can’t see what it is.

“Richie…. Okay, this is confidential, but I’ve known Richie for a long time, and he’s a serious, world-class closet case. He hasn’t even told me he’s gay, but we all know he is. He thinks he’s being discreet with his one-night stands and his hookups and everything, but he’s not. For him to even hint, even to me, even without fully realizing what he’s doing, that he’s actually interested in a guy is huge.”

“He told _me_ he was gay.”

Stan sighs, his smile gentle and wry. “Well, there you go.”

“Why didn’t he ask me out then? Maybe he thought it would be weird, because I’m his trainer?”

“Richie’s kind of all over the map with being weird, so that’s not really surprising, but… Richie is not going to make the first move like that. He’d wait until the end of time rather than ask you first. Coming out to you is about as close to that as he’s going to get.”

Eddie thinks about that for a moment. “What’s he like?” he finally asks. 

That might seem like a silly question coming from someone who’s worked with him most days of the week for several weeks, but Stan understands what he’s asking. “I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s one of my best friends. He’s smart, he’s loyal. He doesn’t know when to shut up sometimes, and other times you can’t drag something out of him to save your life. He doesn’t think much of himself a lot of the time, but he deserves much more than he thinks.” Stan looks at him more closely. “He deserves someone who’ll be good to him. He deserves the world.”

Eddie thinks of Richie limiting himself to secret one-night stands and hookups he doesn’t even think his friends know about. He thinks of Richie sneaking looks at him.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Eddie says. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

Stan laughs. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem. He kinda lights up when he mentions you. He’s even changed what he orders at lunch. No more cheeseburgers and fries. It’s grilled chicken and avocado now. I’d been trying to get him to change his diet for years, so. Thanks for that.” 

Eddie’s suddenly worried. “I’m not, like, giving him an eating disorder or something, am I?” he wonders. “I already thought he was hot, plus I know for a fact there are plenty of larger people who are in as good shape or better than I am, I mean, I can’t lift heavy or play as a linebacker—” He’s rambling. 

“It’s fine, Eddie,” Stan tells him. “So you thought he was hot?”

“Yeah, definitely. Just the first time I saw him, I—”

“Ask him out, Eddie.”

“I will, I will. Do my taxes, Stan.”

“I will.”

\-------

Richie might have a thing for his trainer, but they’re not exactly dating, and he still has needs. That said, he feels weird about having anyone spend the night, which he sort of tries to avoid doing anyway, and which is dumb because again, he’s not actually dating Eddie. He’s not doing anything close to dating Eddie, really. For all Richie knows, Eddie has a boyfriend, and Eddie probably isn’t interested in him. 

So when a guy at a bar asks if he wants to get out of there, Richie goes to his place. It’s fine or whatever, but the whole time he finds his mind wandering to thinking of what Eddie would be like, instead, because he’s an idiot. The same thing happens again with another random dude, and then later on with a third. Maybe this is a problem.

He can’t help noticing, though, that since he’s started going to the gym, his stamina has been better. Oh, cruel irony. 

He wonders if Stan said anything to Eddie, since they saw each other at the cafe. It’s true that Richie’s been talking about Eddie a fair amount. Stan’s not above ratting him out, and if Richie had known they knew each other, he probably wouldn’t have said anything. If Stan did, though, Eddie doesn’t say anything about it at their next appointment.

Two more weeks go by, and with more than six weeks under his belt, Richie’s come to expect praise from Eddie for all the work he’s put in, when Eddie asks him to come to his office. He’s looking pretty sober, though, and Richie’s starting to be concerned. Great, maybe this was too good to be true. He’s fucked up somehow. 

“What’s going on, man? What’s up? Something wrong?” Richie asks, and Eddie looks a little startled, like he hadn’t expected Richie to key in on his mood, whatever it is.

“Uh, well, okay. Uh, Richie, it’s been six weeks, and you’ve done really, really well. I think we’re at the point now where you’ve got everything down and you don’t really need me anymore.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Richie jokes, feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Was it something I said?” Fuck, did he actually do something wrong? Was he creepy, in some way? ... _In some way?_ He’s been checking Eddie out constantly and Eddie probably thought of his coming out to him as some sort of sexual harassment he was too polite to call out as such in the moment. “Probably, not like I haven’t been here before, but—”

“Rich,” Eddie says with a clear effort at patience, “I’m serious, you’ve genuinely done a great job and I think you’re ready to carry on on your own.”

“What if I— don’t want to,” Richie says, “like, what if I’m only doing that well because you’re involved? I told you, discipline isn’t really my thing. I need a firm hand.” He waggles his eyebrows in an attempt to disguise his panic. He’s never really thought before about how much he likes seeing Eddie, how he’d assumed that this would be an ongoing thing. But of course, that was a stupid assumption. 

“You’ll be fine,” Eddie says firmly. “On days I’m here you can feel free to come by and ask me questions. If you really feel the need for a trainer, there are a number of them here I can recommend.”

Ah. “You just don’t want me as a client anymore,” Richie says before he can stop himself.

“It’s… not that.” Eddie’s blushing. Shit, Richie really did cross the line at some point and Eddie, usually so blunt, can’t even tell him what he did. He’s gay, or bi, and he knows Richie’s gay now and he must have done something at some point to make Eddie feel taken advantage of, or something. It could have been just about anything, he realizes. 

“I’m… sorry, for whatever I did,” Richie says, palms up. “I apologize.”

“Shit. Richie,” Eddie says, standing up. “You’re not a bad client, you didn’t do anything to offend me. I mean it, you’ve done really well and I really do think you can move on now to doing it by yourself.” He chews his lip. “I just… I also didn’t want to have you as a client anymore because, and I didn’t want to say this today but you’re freaking out anyway so I have to explain—”

“I’m not freaking out—”

“—I needed to drop you as a client because I wanted to ask you out.”

Richie lets his hands fall to his thighs, shocked. He truly doesn’t know what to say, and then he says, “But you’re—”

“But I’m what?” Eddie folds his arms.

“But you’re… hot,” Richie finishes. _You stupid asshole!_ he immediately thinks to himself.

Eddie raises his brows. “Okay? So are you? What’s your point?” Eddie doesn’t let himself get testy with Richie too often—his resilient professional veneer in the face of Richie’s constant provocation is incredibly hot, but the sense of victory Richie feels on the few occasions when he gets him to crack makes him swoon. 

“What, I’m hot now, so you’re ending our professional relationship and asking me out? That’s really shallow, Eds.” Richie feels lightheaded.

“Since when do you call me ‘Eds’? Also, no, I’m not shallow—I thought you were hot when I first saw you. Like, not when I realized what you were actually saying in your YouTube clips, maybe, but in person, when you first showed up here.”

“I had a spare tire then. I still kinda have a spare tire now,” Richie says. “Wait, you were watching my YouTube clips?”

“Shut up about your spare tire, it’s hot. Don’t change the subject,” Eddie says briskly, red in the face now. Oh shit, a flustered Eddie.

“You mentioned it first! Are you seriously asking me out? Hey, what did Stan tell you? That fucking bird-lover—”

“He said to ask you out because you’d never make the first move.”

Richie feels his face go red. “Well… that. That’s bullshit. I… would have. I… I assumed you had a boyfriend. Obviously someone as hot as you has a boyfriend.”

“I don’t. And I don’t date clients. And you’re not a client now. You’re fired.”

“I don’t accept you firing me as a client.”

“You don’t need to accept it, that’s not how firing works. Richie, you are not my client anymore. Go to dinner with me.”

“No.” Richie folds his arms.

“Richie. What the fuck.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying, dude. Believe me, you want to keep this a professional relationship. You want to keep me as a client, hold me accountable to my goals, and not let me… fuck this up.” 

“Rich. Fuck what up, what the fuck are you talking about.”

“I don’t… do… relationships. I don’t go on dates. I fuck that stuff up.” Richie swallows.

Eddie stares at him, with an expression on his face not unlike the teachers in Richie’s past in the classes where he didn’t get As without trying, the ones where they asked why he didn’t just apply himself. “I don’t accept that as an answer,” he finally says. 

“You’re insisting that I go out to dinner with you. That’s insane, Eds.” Eddie just looks at him. Richie sighs. “You leave me no choice,” he says, folding his arms. “Okay. I’ll go to dinner with you.”

“You’re damn right you will.”

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Eddie points at him. “Keep it up and I’m taking you to Delmonico’s, Rich.”

Richie scoffs. "No way fucking Delmonico's is health food."

“You’re right, not Delmonico’s. Tom’s Noodle House. I bet you’re a cheap date.”

“Excuse _me_ , Mr. Kaspbrak, I don’t give it up to just anybody.”

“I’m not just anybody,” Eddie retorts.

There’s nothing Richie can say to that. “Fine. Saturday?”

“Saturday. Eight o’clock.”

He texts Stan. _What exactly did you say about me to Eddie?_

Stan only replies with _Did it work?_

 _I’ll let you know Sunday morning_ , Richie answers.

Saturday rolls around and Richie’s been trying to ignore how he’s starting to freak out, but it’s getting kind of hard to deny now. Speaking of getting kind of hard, he’s got to jerk off before this date. That’ll calm him down a little, at least. Maybe. 

All it takes to get him there is trying to wrap his head around the realization that he’s going out with Eddie and if he has anything to say about it, there’s absolutely a 100% chance that he’s going to Eddie’s place or Eddie’s coming to his, and he’s finally going to get his hands on him. Richie’s never felt truly, breathlessly excited about a date or about sleeping with anyone before, and he tries not to dwell on how sad that is. He can get up for it, sure, obviously, but actually looking forward to it is an entirely new sensation, and he can only hope he doesn’t fuck everything up. 

He’s a ball of nerves as he walks up to Tom’s Noodle House, until he sees Eddie waiting outside for him. He can feel himself smiling dopily at him, his heart skipping a beat when Eddie smiles dopily back, especially because he visibly tries not to at first and fails. “Sorry,” Richie says as he gets closer, “I decided not to stand you up.”

“Fuck. I’m so disappointed,” Eddie says. “The least you could do is not show up when I ask you out.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty much the worst,” Richie agrees, grinning, following Eddie into the restaurant.

It feels like he’s known Eddie for a long time and they’ve gone out often before. It’s an uncanny sensation, especially considering that he simultaneously feels like there’s so much about Eddie he doesn’t know, and wants to know—like what he looks like naked.

As much as he likes sitting here eating with Eddie, with Eddie poking fun at him for choosing something less spicy than what Eddie chose and a beer more pretentious than what Eddie chose, he really wants to get somewhere private with him. As soon as possible. Hell, he could be talked into not-so-private, as long as it’s soon.

Eddie’s paid the check, over Richie’s protestations, and Richie’s finishing his beer when Eddie meets his gaze and says, “Ready to get out of here?”

“Fuck yes.” Richie is. “Where to?” he asks, once they’re outside.

“Drinks at my place?” Eddie suggests, nudging his shoulder against Richie’s arm. “But you gotta run there. I’ll race you.”

“I have to follow you, I don’t know where you live.”

“Then I guess I won already.”

“Yeah, well, good thing, because that shit was gonna wear me out.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Eddie says, low and amused. 

Eddie’s got a nice apartment, or at least Richie assumes he does, because the lights are still off when Eddie gets him inside, presses him up against the wall just inside the door, and kisses him, leaning up and pulling him down a bit to be able to do so. Richie’s surprised enough to gasp out an embarrassing noise. Eddie’s aggressive, kissing him bruisingly hard, Richie clutching at his shoulders and barely managing to keep up. Eddie’s actually grinding against him, pressing him into the wall, and Richie doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed with anything near this level of enthusiasm. His dick is extremely into it, and evidently so is Eddie’s.

“Wait a minute, I thought you said we were gonna have drinks,” Richie manages to say into the kiss. Eddie huffs out a laugh.

“We can stop for that if you want,” Eddie whispers back.

“I think I’m good,” Richie gets out, as Eddie presses his hips more firmly against Richie’s and attacks his neck with little biting kisses, his hands getting up under Richie’s t-shirt. “Fuck. Who said you could manhandle me like this, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

“You saying I can’t?” Eddie steps back to reach one hand behind his own neck and pull his shirt off. Richie fumbles for a lightswitch somewhere on the wall behind him. He finds one, but it just turns on a row of track lights leading to the kitchen. It’s enough, though. Eddie is gorgeous, ripped without being too ripped. To say Eddie is neat would be putting it too simply and blandly; to say he's compact would be understating the case. There is no more and no less Eddie than there needs to be; unlike Richie, who's still constantly surprised at his own height, his breadth, the length of his limbs that don't really always seem to be his, he seems perfect in and of himself. “Holy fuck. Uh, no, just asking stupid questions.”

Smirking, Eddie toes off his shoes. Richie follows suit, and allows himself to be dragged toward what he assumes must be Eddie’s bedroom. Once they’re in there, Eddie is already tugging off Richie’s shirt. The light isn’t even on yet; the only light is coming from the window, the city lights at night, through a thin curtain. Once his shirt’s on the floor, Eddie’s got his hands all over him again, like he’s been waiting for this. 

“Admiring your handiwork?” Richie jokes, completely unused to someone who seems so intent on spending this much time on preliminaries with him.

“Admiring _you_ ,” Eddie says. He cups Richie’s jaw in both hands, sliding them down his neck and over his shoulders, down his arms, to his stomach, to his sides. Richie inhales sharply, tempted to shrink away a little, but Eddie won’t let him. Even though it’s dark-ish in here, Richie can easily see Eddie’s expressive brown eyes, almost glittering, looking at him. He unbuttons Richie’s jeans and makes him step out of them. Eddie stands looking at him, the feeling of his eyes on him almost like a physical touch, and then he reaches a hand out to cup and squeeze Richie over his underwear. “Fuck,” Eddie says, seemingly half to himself, then adds, “Fuck, you’re so hot, Rich.”

Richie laughs, shakily, painfully aroused despite the fact that Eddie is _looking_ at him, _seeing_ him even in the dark. “If you say so.”

“I do.” With a parting squeeze to his cock, Eddie sheds his jeans, and he’s standing there with just these little dark boxer-briefs on. “What do you want?” he says, voice low and threaded with arousal. 

“I want your dick inside me,” Richie finds himself saying, tone rising up on the end of the statement as if he can make the case that it’s self-evident and not something he should have to say. Like, _duh_. 

Eddie gives his own cock a squeeze then, closing his eyes for a moment. He then takes off his socks, and his underwear. “You know what you’re gonna do?” Eddie says, while Richie’s staring at his cock and trying to pay attention to what he’s saying. Eddie gives the base of his cock a squeeze and gets on the bed. “Rich. Listen to me.”

“Yeah, what?” Richie licks his dry lips.

“Take the rest of your clothes off.”

“Okay.” Richie does, Eddie’s eyes glued to him from where he’s lying on the bed, his socks and underwear joining his shirt, his jeans, and Eddie’s clothes on the floor.

“C’mere.” Eddie’s slowly jacking himself. “You been tested recently?”

“Yeah, uh, I’m fine,” Richie says, watching Eddie’s hand around his perfect cock.

“Me too. Get the lube out of that drawer,” he points to the nightstand, “and straddle me. I want you to ride me.”

“Uh, shit. Okay.” Richie runs a hand through his hair, stunned. At most, he was expecting Eddie to tell him to blow him, which he would have been more than fine with. “Um. Okay.” He opens the drawer Eddie indicated, and takes out the lube. 

“Come on, Rich,” Eddie teases, “get me wet.” He’s still casually stroking himself. Richie feels like his face is on fire.

“Move your hand and I will, dude,” Richie says, uncapping it, still standing next to the bed. “It’s so fucking dark in here I might—”

“Oh, you want the light on?” Eddie stretches to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before Richie can answer, and then he’s lit up in a soft, warm glow. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and Richie has to sit down. Eddie’s staring right back at him. Richie gets a pool of lube in his palm with the minimum amount of looking away from Eddie possible and wraps it around Eddie’s dick, the sound of his inhalation at the contact loud in the otherwise silent room. Eddie’s hips tilt up a little, his neck flushing red. “Come on, Rich. Come on,” Eddie says, low, patting his hands on his upper thighs.

“You sure you want me to do this?” Richie grumbles.

“Yes, I am. You said you wanted this dick inside you, so get on with it.” Despite his wording, Eddie’s expression is oddly gentle, maybe more than a little smug. And he’s _looking_ at Richie—

“Fuck. Okay. Fine.” Face burning, feeling incredibly oafish and clumsy, with as much dignity as he can muster Richie straddles Eddie, his cock up in the crack of his ass. “I don’t want to like, crush you,” he mutters.

“Fuck you, you’re not crushing me,” Eddie laughs, and the level of familiarity should be alarming, but then again, Richie has Eddie’s cock in the crack of his ass at this very moment. “Come on, prep yourself. I want to watch you.”

Richie doesn’t think anyone’s ever taken much of an interest in watching him stick his fingers in his ass. With the hand that he’d slicked up Eddie’s cock with, as he shifts forward a little to give himself some room considering Eddie’s cock is nudged up against him, he slips two fingers inside himself, highly aware of Eddie watching him, although Richie is now avoiding direct eye contact. “I don’t— I don’t technically really need to—”

“You sure about that?” Eddie teases, eyebrows raised. “Besides, I want to watch you do it.”

Leaning on one hand, with the other in his ass, Richie isn’t prepared for it when Eddie wraps a hand around his cock. He gasps, accidentally locking his gaze with Eddie’s, and can’t help a groan—okay, maybe it tapers off into a whimper, because he can’t help shoving his fingers a little deeper, and fuck, it feels good. 

Eddie slides his thumb over the tip of Richie’s cock, wetting it with his precome. Richie clamps his lips together against a sound that was sure to have been another whimper.

“No,” Eddie chides, gently, giving him a squeeze. “I want to hear you.” He starts to stroke him, slowly, and Richie can’t help moving his fingers deeper and then almost out, and then deeper again, thrusting, moving his hips with the motion of Eddie’s hand on him. Soon he’s panting a little, lips parted.

“I bet you could come like this,” Eddie whispers, still stroking him, maddeningly slowly.

“Maybe,” Richie gets out.

“I don’t want you to do that, though,” Eddie continues. “I want you to come on my cock.”

“God,” Richie says, like a reflex.

“Come on, Rich,” Eddie whispers. “Sit on my cock.”

With a little groan, Richie removes his fingers, fumbling behind himself for Eddie’s cock, and shifts back to sink down on it. It takes him a little while to adjust, to get it feeling right, and then it feels _very_ right. Eddie keeps his hand on his cock the whole time, loosely stroking it, watching him, the other hand on his thigh.

And there he is, he’s got Eddie’s dick completely inside him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie whispers. “You are so fucking hot, Rich, holy shit.”

\-------

“You’re just saying that because I’m sitting on your dick right now.”

Eddie moves both hands to Richie’s thighs, his long, hairy thighs. Shit, the man is gorgeous. Broad hairy chest and belly, broad shoulders, his beautiful cock so red and hard it looks painful—he’s like a dream. His expression looks pained, and he can barely make himself look at Eddie, like he’s embarrassed.

“No. Rich, look at me. Hey.”

Richie makes a soft sound in his throat, reluctantly turning his head to make eye contact with him, like he almost can’t stand to do it. Eddie catches that he shivers all over when he does, when Eddie keeps his gaze like he won’t let him look away. Eddie wants to say something to provoke him, to make him react like he did when Eddie told him he’d done a good job at the gym.

He runs his hands up and down Richie’s thighs. “You look so hot riding my dick, baby.”

A flush blooming up his neck, Richie huffs out a disbelieving laugh, but between them his cock actually twitches, a spurt of precome dripping down it. Eddie raises an eyebrow and wraps a hand around it again, and Richie groans, like it hurts. Eddie feels him clenching around his dick, like he can’t help it. 

“You want to come, Rich?” Eddie asks, loosely stroking him again. Richie’s lashes flutter behind his glasses, and he swallows, his adam’s apple working in his gorgeous neck. 

“Of course I want to come, that’s kind of the point of sex,” he manages.

“Not always.” Eddie grins. 

“Well it is when I’m having it,” Richie mutters.

Eddie rubs his thumb over the tip of Richie’s cock again, watches him shudder. “Rich. You want to come?”

“Stop asking me— Yes. Okay, yes. I want to come.”

“Okay.” Eddie lets Richie’s cock slip free from his hand. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, almost like a complaint, the blush having spread up to his hairline. But he immediately starts to move. Eddie can already picture him unraveling and he wants so badly to see it for himself. 

Richie grips his thighs just above his knees and works himself on Eddie’s cock. It makes Eddie think maybe he’s done this kind of thing a lot before, alone, with a dildo up his ass—and there’s something Eddie wouldn’t mind seeing, or just thinking about. 

He gets the feeling when Richie’s with a guy, this isn’t what he does; he’s not used to being seen like this. Eddie gets to see him like this, though.

Richie closes his eyes, lips parting just slightly, and breathes, “Okay, but could you not, like, look at me.” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question; it’s like he can’t make himself actually ask.

Eddie laughs. “Kinda hard when you’re basically the entirety of my field of vision.”

“Fuck you,” Richie gets out, opening his eyes.

“No, I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Eddie laughs. “Jesus.” He slides his hands up to frame Richie’s hips, noting how that makes Richie’s already harsh breathing stutter. “You kidding me? I’ve wanted to see you like this for weeks, Richie.” 

Richie closes his eyes again, brows drawn together in either consternation or concentration, or a mix of both, and turns his head to press his face into his upper arm. This combined with how hard he’s breathing, the huffs amplified by the way they’re exhaled against his skin, make Eddie rock his hips up, which in turns startles Richie’s eyes open. Eddie keeps going, still watching him, as Richie’s movements become more frantic, trying to match his, like he can’t help chasing his pleasure. 

“Yeah. That’s it, come on,” Eddie says, soft. Between them, Richie’s cock bobs up, smearing precome against his stomach, wetting and darkening the hair there. Eddie almost regrets jumping right to having Richie sit on his cock, wanting to touch him more, get his hands on him, get him down his throat. At the thought, he licks his lips. He could have dropped to his knees just inside the door, earlier. That said, he’s more than okay with what’s happening. But next time.... “God, Rich, next time I’m gonna taste you.”

Richie whimpers, apparently before he can stop himself, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Eddie digs his fingers into Richie’s hips, moves him a little as he rocks up into him. It’s not really cheating, he thinks. He’s just helping Richie along.

Richie blinks dazedly, and Eddie murmurs to him, “You want it so bad, don’t you? You really can just come like this. You need it so much.” 

Richie’s eyes widen for a moment at that, Eddie can see, and a flush spreads across his upper chest. He’s starting to pant, breaths getting higher in his throat and more desperate-sounding. His knuckles are white with how tightly he’s digging his fingers into the meat of his legs. “Shut up,” he gets out.

“Why? Someone has to say something, and you seem to be tongue-tied, ‘Trashmouth,’” Eddie teases, raising up more on his elbows and bending his knees a little for more leverage, rolling his hips under Richie’s. The shifting changes the position of his cock inside Richie, who groans low in his throat. “I don’t think you want me to shut up,” Eddie continues. Richie looks at him quickly, and then just as quickly away. Eddie grins. He has a hunch. “I think you want me to tell you how good you are. You’re like this just for me, aren’t you? Only this good for me.”

Richie shudders, but doesn’t deny it. Eddie thinks Richie might like what he’s saying even more than Eddie does, and Eddie likes it quite a bit, judging from the way his dick pulses. “I just—” Richie starts to say, brow furrowing as he bites his lip. “I haven’t—”

“Haven’t let anyone else see you like this?” Eddie asks, rocking up into him. It’s a bald question and he’s not surprised Richie doesn’t directly answer it. He just shakes his head, a little frantically. “I don’t think I’ve ever fucked anyone as hot as you,” Eddie says, and Richie huffs out a disbelieving laugh, but Eddie doesn’t miss that his cock bobs. “Fuck you, I’m serious.”

“Oh really? The others haven’t all been hot little muscle twinks, or whatever, like you?” Richie says, and swallows.

“If what you’re saying is I’ve never slept with anyone as masculine as you, that would be correct,” Eddie says, starting to get breathless now himself.

“‘Masculine’? Is that a nice way of saying ‘big and hairy’?”

Eddie laughs. “You don’t think those are good things?”

“Do _you_?”

“What does my dick tell you?”

“I don’t think I can translate,” Richie gets out, “but I’ll admit it seems fairly positive.” 

“You have your type, I have mine,” Eddie says. “Apparently yours is ‘hot little muscle twinks, or whatever.’”

“What gave me away,” Richie gasps.

“C’mon, Richie. Work yourself on my cock. I want you to come,” Eddie says, low. 

Richie rolls his hips and makes a sound like a whimper in his throat and starts to come, and it’s possibly the hottest thing Eddie has ever seen, and not just because it’s seemingly triggered just by Eddie more or less telling him to. Richie’s flushed, breathing harder, cock spurting _untouched_. With a groan Richie tries to cover his face, and Eddie takes him by the wrists and pulls them away. He’s got his lips pressed together and his brow furrowed; he’s trying desperately to stifle his reaction, maybe fearful that it’s too much.

“Don’t,” Eddie says, and Richie’s hands slowly drop to his sides, fingers curling and uncurling until he grasps the bedding. 

Now that Richie’s done as he’s told, Eddie wraps his hand around him again and strokes him through the last of it, Richie’s come slicking up his fingers. Not expecting that, apparently, Richie is unable to stifle his groan this time, blinking wildly as he makes eye contact with Eddie, who couldn’t look away from him if the apartment was on fire. Pressing his hips up against Richie’s with all the effort he can muster, Eddie laughs breathlessly as Richie, lips parted, rakes his gaze over Eddie, taking him in like he has to look quickly, and then closes his eyes. When he opens them he’s looking away. It’s ridiculous because Eddie still has his hand slowly stroking his cock, and Richie’s still shuddering because apparently he’s not completely done coming, and he’s clenching helplessly around Eddie still.

“What, you don’t want to look at me?” Eddie asks, breathless, teasing. “I got to watch you come, you don’t want to watch me?”

“I can’t exactly see you come. Technically,” Richie mutters. 

Eddie laughs. “You know what I mean. Don’t you like it? Don’t you want to look?” How fascinating that a stand-up comic who has no problem making raunchy cracks on stage before crowds of strangers can barely get out a few words about the sex he’s actually having, can barely look at the man who’s fucking him without blushing, even after coming as hard as he just did. It’s incredibly endearing, even as it kind of makes Eddie’s heart break a little. 

It kind of makes sense that Richie would have an easier time joking about things that aren’t important to him in front of people he doesn’t know, but Eddie can’t help imagining a possible time in the future where Richie looks his fill, takes what he needs—what he deserves—and knows it. And Eddie wants to help that future along, as much as he can..

Briefly, he thinks of how Richie looked at the cafe with Stan, relaxed and happy. And that, in addition to the stunned look on Richie’s face as he finally lets himself really look at Eddie, the way he inhales sharply when Eddie lets his cock go to hold his hips so Eddie can fuck up into him just the way he needs, is what makes Eddie come. 

And Richie does watch him. Eddie doesn’t think he’ll soon forget the heat in his slackjawed gaze.

It’s not too long, however, before Richie’s apparently overcome with something that makes him deflect with “My knees, Jesus,” and groan as he shifts off of Eddie, who automatically wants to grab him and keep him where he is, but doesn’t. Richie stretches out next to him, flushed, still breathing hard and skin slick with sweat. Eddie turns to kiss him, and he puts his hands over his face again, so Eddie kisses the backs of his hands. 

Richie laughs softly, the sound muffled, and finally relents, slowly pulling his hands away. Victorious, Eddie covers his face in kisses: his stubble-rough cheeks, his jutting chin, his square jaw, the tip of his nose, his eyelids, his forehead, and at last his mouth. Richie wraps his arms around him, keeping him close, _letting_ him. Not turning away or trying to hide. It’s a start.

“So,” Eddie says, relaxing against him, “aren’t you glad I fired you?”

“I mean, we could have made that part of the program,” Richie says, a little breathless. 

“Don’t worry.” Eddie settles onto Richie, pressing a kiss to his neck. “I can still give you a workout. Any time you want.”

“Watch out, I might take you up on that,” Richie says, but there’s a teasing smile in his voice.

“You’d fucking better,” Eddie murmurs, tilting up to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy Emily Dickinson, "From the Chrysalis."


End file.
